Everlark . . . Please review!

I sit at the wooden table that Peeta has painted beautiful dandelions and daisies on. We still live in Peeta's 'Victor' house, and slowly, after the war ceased District 12 began to build themselves together. Only District 12 is not the name of the place where we live now, some genius named it by its old name, Appalachia.

I eat the wild turkey I'd shot this morning, and even though Peeta and I had more then enough money to buy proper food from the stores, we both like the freshly shot game then the meat from the butcher.

I'm halfway done eating the turkey when I start to feel sick. Really sick. I felt bile coming up and ran as fast as I possibly could to the bathroom. Being sick reminds me of when I puked up bile after the fire in my first Hunger Games. I was so young then, so unaware of everything . . .

My head starts to feel dizzy and I have no idea what's the matter with me; I mean I cooked the turkey well, and I've had no recent illnesses.

My stomach starts to feel weird. Like . . . like something's kicking inside it. I frown.

Am I . . . no, I couldn't be. Peeta and I have done it, yes, but still. I couldn't be . . . pregnant?

Just as I'm trying to get my head straight, I feel something kick again, and I knew it wasn't just a tummy upset, or food poisoning.

I was pregnant. And that, that was more scary then anything I've ever felt or witnessed, and that's saying something. I am the girl the Capitol wanted dead, I've seen my sister die, had direct death threats by two presidents, seen my friends die, even little Rue being speared in the stomach. I've been sliced on my head with a knife, I've been burnt badly on my thigh, I've seen my best friend get whipped, and many other things that no girl at my age should have seen. But this . . . I'm absolutely, positively petrified.

I keep looking in the mirror at my stomach. I should do something, tell Peeta or start thinking of baby names or call my mother. But, I don't. I just stare at myself and my tummy.

Peeta will be back soon, he had only just gone to visit his friend, Delly, and he'll probably want an explanation of why I'm acting so weird, or why I've puked my guts out. I decide to tell him today, but I have no idea how. What do I say? What do I do? I'm not great with kids, I'm not even sure I want them. But something, in the back of my dark and damaged beyond repair mind, is Prim. She tells me that the baby will love me, like I love her, and that I'll be a great mother.

I listen to her. Because deep down, I know I love this baby.

I flinch when the door opens.

"Katniss, I've got some cookies and-," I hear a thud downstairs. "What in the name of . . .? Katniss, are you alright?"

I hear him running upstairs, and when I see him, I almost laugh. He seems to have slipped in my own sick, and he wears a slight grimace on his face.

"I'm, um . . .," I can't tell him. "I'm sorry, about um, you know, puking . . ."

"What's the matter? Katniss?" He frowns. He can read me like a book.

"Peeta, I think I'm, I'm . . ." I look down at my stomach, and his eyes widen in shock, but with a hint of excitement as well.

"You, mean, you're . . . pregnant? And I'm going to be a, . . . father?" For once it seems, Peeta is a little shocked for words.

I nod.

Peeta smiles.

"What are we going to call the baby?" He grins, showing no sign of fear from the fact he's having a baby with grumpy, sullen old me.

"Well . . . I thought, if it's a girl, Prim. And if it's a boy . . .," I trail off.

"Finnick." Says Peeta.

I smile. There's no need to be scared, not if Peeta's here. He always has been, and always will. And so will I.